


You Caught The Light

by tricksterity



Series: anything could happen [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Getting Together, How Bard and Thranduil got together, M/M, technically a prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2924495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard's job is simple - sail out to where the lake meets the river's edge, and collect the barrels that the elves of the Greenwood deliver downstream. It is easy and has always been the same.</p><p>That is, until an elf appears at the forest edge, who has a curious interest in Bard.</p><p>(aka how the fuck Bard and Thranduil got together, and is technically a prequel)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Caught The Light

**Author's Note:**

> You would honestly not believe how bloody long it took me to write this. Actually, it was only a day, but it felt like for fucking ever. I churned this out for you guys as quickly as possible, because I know ya'll wanted a prequel to [](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2886251)I See Fire and I aim to please. There are most likely going to be a few more fics that take place between these two to bridge out the time gap, but I'm not promising that I'll write them as quickly as I wrote this.
> 
> It's technically a prequel, but if you haven't read the other one, reading this one first should be fine, though you'll probably pick up on more if you read the other first. Once I've written the ones in between this though, it should be able to be read as a chronological series.
> 
> Enjoy, and I hope this is in character enough.
> 
> **> >> Fanfiction commissions are open! If you liked my writing and you're interested in me writing something for you, click [HERE](http://tricksterity.tumblr.com/post/140544637431) for more information! **

 

Bard navigated through the waters as easily as breathing, barely a thought put into a pull or push of the rudder as he stared at his destination off in the distance.

 

The air was hot and the sun beat down upon the lake with fervor, the hazy mist that usually surrounded the area had dissipated in the morning sun. Bard’s destination was clear, and he could see straight to where the lake joined up with the smaller river, where upstream it became white, fast rapids.

 

The shore was not made of sand, but of large, sharp rocks that jutted out at all angles. The water currents, however, had smoothed them nearest the edges, making it easy for Bard to pull up his barge and tie it securely down, waiting for the barrels to come bobbing down the river.

 

The elves’ timing was impeccable, as always, and within a few minutes Bard got to his feet as the first barrel turned the bend and sailed smoothly down the water. It pulled lazily up to the shore of it’s own accord, and Bard’s shoes were barely wetted as he rolled it up to the flat, rocky plains.

 

The next barrel did not behave as kindly as the first, and Bard was knee-deep in water in order to catch it before it floated too far downstream. He remembered when he first took the job, and had not yet perfected the art of chasing down barrels and rolling them on shore before the next came lazily around the bend.

 

Bard had rolled the fifth barrel onto shore when he felt a prickling on the back of his neck, a sensation that he was being watched, and whirled around with a hand twitching towards his shoulder before he realized he had no quiver on him, and his bow was in his boat.

 

The figure stood as still as the trees surrounding them, with white-gold hair as fine as silk and as straight as a board. Bard could not see their features clearly from such a distance, but he could discern dark, thick eyebrows, fine clothing and pointed ears.

 

Bard stared at the elf for a minute, waiting to see if the figure would do anything. The elf did not move, and a change in the sounds behind him alerted Bard that another barrel was coming around the bend. With senses heightened and wary, Bard turned his back on the elven figure to wade thigh-deep into the water. The air was hot and the water was cool, and Bard didn’t mind getting wet as he usually did. Though he lived on a lake, Bard did not enjoy the sensation of cloying, sticky, heavy clothes more than anybody else.

 

By the time he had rolled fourteen barrels onto shore and waited until he was sure there were no more, he turned around again. The figure still had not moved, at least not while Bard was looking, and it was truly a testament to the patience of elves that they had not moved for a good twenty minutes, judging by the movement of the sun.

 

Bard raised an eyebrow and a hand in greeting, but the figure did not return it. With a shrug, Bard began to move the barrels onto his boat, fully aware that the figure was still watching him. Bard did not move for his bow or quiver, which were leaning against the railing of his boat, as he did not feel threatened by the strange elf. If they had wanted to kill him, they would have done so when his back was turned.

 

With a last look at the far-off elf, Bard cast away and began the journey back across the lake, wondering what about his menial task had interested the elf for so long.

 

*

 

The elf had all but disappeared from Bard’s mind when he pulled his boat up to shore the following week, until he felt the prickling on his neck. He turned to see that the figure was standing at the edge of the forest much closer to the shoreline, and he could make out more of the elf’s features.

 

He was male, Bard thought, judging from the strong brows and jawline, though it was common for elves to be mistaken for any gender. The clothing the elf wore were clearly very fine; robes of silver that nearly touched the ground, long sleeves that tapered off on an angle.

 

Of the few elves Bard had seen in his lifetime, he had always noticed the intricate braids that they kept in their hair, much as dwarves did but much sleeker. It was strange to see that this elf did not have any style in his hair, but just allowed his silver-golden locks to fall steadily to his side.

 

Somehow, Bard thought, this made him more beautiful than all the rest.

 

The water currents made a sound from behind him, and Bard turned to begin his task of bringing the barrels in from the river. Very occasionally, Bard would have something to deliver back to the elves, such as imported wine, and he wondered if this elf was one who came to see if he had any such deliveries.

 

There were only a few barrels, eight in total, and Bard finished his job much quicker than usual. The air was still hot, and Bard wiped his forehead, glad that he had tied the majority of his hair up so that any breeze could brush against the back of his neck where sweat liked to collect.

 

As his job was done faster than usual, Bard took off his shoes and rolled up his pants to the knees and sat on the edge of the shore to place his feet in the sweet, cool water, angling himself so that he could still keep an eye on the elf at the edge of the forest.

 

He laid his head back against the rock, and was beginning to relax when the figure suddenly moved from their stillness. Bard’s hand once again twitched up for his quiver, but he pulled it back down quickly, staring at the figure.

 

As the figure got closer, Bard could make out more features – a straight nose, a slight widow’s peak, and eyes a shade of blue that reminded Bard of ice. The elf showed no emotion, not even curiosity.

 

As the elf drew closer, Bard pulled himself to his feet, not wishing to be at any disadvantage to him. The elf did not look so armed, but Bard knew that if the elf desired to attack him, he would be overpowered almost immediately, for the strength and speed of elves were legendary.

 

Soon the elf stood but five metres away, hands clasped behind his back, finery shining in the sun. Bard did not know if this elf was of royalty, or if the clothing of elves was always so intricate and fine. Bard maintained eye contact with the elf for well over a minute, hand twitching for his bow, before the elf seemed to decide something, and tilted his head minutely to the right.

 

“Why do you do such a menial task?” the elf asked. His voice was deep, slow and measured, ringing heavily with authority, as if the question was also a command that it must be answered.

 

“It pays well,” was all Bard replied. He then broke eye contact with the elf and walked past him to begin loading the barrels onto his boat. When he was done, he turned to see the elf standing in the same place, looking at him with something that was almost expectation, though his face betrayed no emotion.

 

“It also lets me get out of town for a while, away from the eyes of the Master,” Bard eventually said, leaning against the side of his boat. His bow and quiver were just on the other side of the railing, although he did not know if he would be able to reach them in the time it would take for the elf to cover the distance between them.

 

“Ah, yes, the Master of Laketown,” the elf drawled slowly, something akin to amusement in his voice, lips pulling up almost unnoticeably into a sneer. “Besotted with gold and ale.”

 

“You know of him?” Bard asked, relaxing slightly, the elf clearly seeming to dislike the Master.

 

“Unfortunately,” the elf said, staring off past Bard towards Laketown, as though he could see straight to the Master himself. And given what Bard had heard about elvish eyesight, it would not be impossible. “I can certainly see why one would wish to escape him, if only for an hour.”

 

“He’d love me to escape permanently, I suspect,” Bard muttered, mostly to himself, but it was clear that the elf heard his words.

 

“You are the rebellious type?” the elf said, words quirking up in the end as though it were a question, but it sounded more like a statement.

 

“No, just one who has become tired of his cruelty and ignorance,” Bard sighed. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was telling the elf this; perhaps it was because he wanted to make conversation with the strange creature that had watched him so intently.

 

Bard looked up to the sun, and knew that it was well past time for him to get home to his children, and stepped onto the boat. The elf said nothing more, just simply watched as Bard cast off and began his journey back home.

 

Bard raised a hand to the elf as he left, and this time the elf returned it.

 

*

 

The next week, Bard could see the elf waiting on the shore long before he had reached it. He raised an eyebrow as he tied his boat up and stepped out onto the rocks. The elf looked exactly the same as he had last week, even to the point of standing in the same spot, looking at Bard from his right, although his robes were of a different pattern.

 

“Why do you come here?” Bard asked, no longer afraid to speak to the elf.

 

“Curiosity,” the elf replied, and in the week Bard had quite forgotten the deep, slow cadence of the elf’s voice.

 

“I’m sure elves must have better ways to spend their time, with rumors of dark creatures afoot,” Bard replied, raising an eyebrow. Whispers had come to Laketown of a shadow falling over the Greenwood, a sickness that gave power to dark things that crawled about the underbrush.

 

“Our borders are protected,” the elf simply replied.

 

“I still do not understand why, for the third time, you have come to watch me simply take your empty barrels,” Bard said, keeping one eye out for the sight of a barrel bobbing along in the water. The elf smirked but infuriatingly said nothing.

 

Bard sighed, and wished for the barrels to turn the bend so he would not have to put up with the elf, but the river ran empty. It was silent for minutes, with the elf smirking, testing Bard’s patience. Bard grew bored of waiting for both the elf to speak and for the barrels to arrive, and retrieved his bow and quiver from the boat.

 

He aimed at the nearest tree to him and fired, the arrow landing squarely in the middle of the trunk. The next arrow he put into a tree to the right and farther away, practicing the skills he had all but no time for, raising three children.

 

The easy flow of pulling an arrow from his quiver to the bowstring, the breath in and the release was calming for Bard. He had quite forgotten that the elf was still on the shore with him, or that he was being watched, and he almost missed his mark when a voice spoke up from his right.

 

“You are skilled with a bow,” the elf said, and Bard turned to him.

 

“I have to defend my family,” Bard replied. “We get all sorts of strange folk passing through Laketown, and we make sure that we are well defended.” At that moment, he saw the first barrel round the bend, and he returned his bow to the boat to wade out into the river.

 

Ten barrels arrived in quick succession, and when he rolled the final one to the shore, the elf was standing where he always did, but he held twelve of Bard’s arrows in his hand. Bard had not even seen or heard him move from the spot.

 

Bard maintained eye contact with the elf as he took the arrows from the elf’s hand and replaced them back in his quiver, before he began to load up the barrels onto his boat.

 

“You said you had a family,” the elf spoke up, and Bard leaned on one of the barrels as he looked over to the elf, who had his hands neatly clasped in front of him, head tilted slightly.

 

“Aye, a son and two daughters,” Bard replied. “And you?” The elf was quiet for some moments.

 

“I have a son,” the elf replied in a measured tone, as though revealing the information would lead to Bard somehow hunting his son down. Bard noticed that neither of them mentioned a wife.

 

The conversation seemed to end there, and so Bard continued to load the barrels onto the boat. When he was done, he wiped his brow, and turned back to the elf with a smirk.

 

“You never did give me your name,” Bard said, and the elf smirked. It seemed like a cruel, arrogant smirk, but not intentionally. Bard felt as though the elf had not smiled truly for a long while.

 

“And neither did you,” the elf replied. Bard nodded his head with a quirk of his eyebrow.

 

“No I did not,” Bard said. The elf was quiet. Bard chuckled to himself and cast off, but did not yet set out down the river.

 

“If I tell you my name, will you tell me yours?” Bard asked.

 

“Perhaps,” the elf replied. Bard was silent for a few moments, and then acquiesced.

 

“My name is Bard,” he said. “Will you now tell me yours?”

 

The elf simply smirked, turned, and walked away towards the woods.

 

“Bastard,” Bard muttered, sure that the elf would hear him, as he sailed down the river.

 

*

 

The next week the elf was already standing on the shores but Bard did not give him a second look as he tied up his boat and headed for the shoreline. He brushed past the elf with barely an inch between them, and leaned against a large rock with his ankles and arms crossed.

 

“I have kept my patience with you for far too long,” Bard muttered, staring out to the bend in the river, not even bothering to speak directly to the elf, who still said nothing.

 

“You are clearly brain-addled or far too cruel and cryptic to keep this game of yours going for so long,” Bard continued. “A month I have known you and yet you will not tell me your name.”

 

“A name means much in these woods,” the elf finally replied.

 

“It’s a common courtesy to tell someone your name after they have told you theirs, though I expect many elves are not as courteous towards men,” Bard muttered. The elf made a small noise, and without looking at him, Bard did not know if it was a noise of anger or a smalls sound of amusement.

 

The first barrel rounded the bend and Bard began his usual job of rolling them to shore, but as he hauled the fourth barrel onto land, he found his way blocked by a tall figure with hands clasped behind them. He looked up to see the elf looking amused, as though he were a tiny, insignificant show puppet, and Bard gave a low sound of annoyance as he rolled the barrel around the figure to the others.

 

The elf managed to get in the way of the next few barrels, and by the time the eleventh barrel had been halted, Bard gave the elf a small kick to the shins as he passed.

 

The elf let out an amused sound, and Bard rolled his eyes. He would never understand elves.

 

“You know, I only keep this job because it is easy and allows me to feed my children. I do not need some smug elf making it any harder for me,” Bard said to the elf as he hauled the final barrel onto shore.

 

“Tell me of them,” the elf said, less a request and more a demand, and Bard turned to him with eyebrows raised into his hairline.

 

“You do not get to demand I tell you of my children when you are so protective of your own name. Perhaps I should ask you to tell _me_ of your son,” Bard replied, leaning on one of the empty barrels. The elf stared at him for a long while with those ice blue eyes, not saying anything, and Bard had just turned to roll the first barrel onto his boat when-

 

“His name is Legolas,” the elf finally said, though so quiet Bard could barely hear him, as if he didn’t quite want Bard to know. “He has my eyes, and the shade of my hair, but his stature is that of his mother. He spends all of his time rushing off into the forest, like he did as a child.”

 

Bard turned to the elf, and saw that his eyes seemed to be focused far away. Bard sighed, and figured fair was fair.

 

“My eldest is Sigrid,” he said, and the elf moved his eyes to Bard. “She takes care of the youngest two while I am away, and has taken up too many duties of her mother’s. Bain is my only son, and is curious and stubborn as they come. Tilda is the youngest, fond of storytelling and nothing can dampen her spirits. They all in some way remind me of their mother.”

 

The elf stared at him for some moments, as though processing that Bard had allowed him to know anything of his children.

 

“I do not usually have dealings with men,” the elf said slowly, as though Bard was supposed to catch some hidden meaning in his words.

 

“I can’t imagine why,” Bard murmured. He was sure that the elf’s mouth twitched up slightly at the side.

 

“I first came here because I was curious, and I stayed because I find you interesting, Bard of Laketown,” the elf said, putting a strange emphasis on Bard’s name that made something flutter in his chest.

 

“You mustn’t get out too often if you find this interesting,” Bard said, picking up a barrel and taking it to his boat. The elf took a step towards him, and then leaned on the railing of his boat, watching as Bard hauled the barrels onto the barge.

 

“It is not the task I find interesting,” the elf said, and Bard raised his eyebrows as he passed with a barrel. The elf had said it calmly, without any inflection or emotion, and Bard wasn’t quite sure what to think of it.

 

“Perhaps things would be more interesting if I didn’t have to keep calling you ‘that bastard elf’ in my head,” Bard said pointedly, placing one of the last barrels onto the deck. The elf’s eyes lit up with mischief, and Bard wondered if perhaps he had gone too far, but did not hesitate to pass straight past the elf to retrieve another barrel.

 

“Most men would not speak to an elf in such a way,” the elf said, though not in a condemning or threatening way, just as an observation.

 

“Most men do not have to put up with elves getting in the way of their jobs,” Bard shot back, rolling the last barrel into position on his boat. When he turned around, the elf had moved to only two paces in front of him, leaning forward slightly, staring at him with curiosity and amusement. Bard couldn’t help the twitch of his hand for his bow at a figure sneaking up on him.

 

The elf seemed to decide something and took a step back, settling into a relaxed position.

 

“Thranduil,” he said.

 

“What?” Bard asked, confused.

 

“You asked me my name,” the elf said, inclining his head slightly.

 

“It took you long enough,” Bard said with a grin, and stepped back to cast off. Thranduil smirked as he did so, and they both raised a hand in greeting as Bard sailed down the river.

 

*

 

The next week, before Bard had even tied up his boat to shore, he knew that something was wrong. Thranduil was armed, for one thing, and he looked worried.

 

“Is something wrong?” Bard asked, slinging his quiver over his shoulder.

 

“You should not have come here,” Thranduil said, a tone of worry in that deep voice. Bard frowned and tightened his hand on his bow, stepping out onto the shore. “Spiders have been sighted around these parts, coming up from the ruins of Dol Guldur.”

 

“Then I shall be quick with my task and remain armed,” Bard said, and Thranduil frowned, but nodded. Bard headed down to the shoreline as the first barrel rounded the corner, and began to quickly gather them up. Thranduil remained further back on shore; hand on the hilt of his sword, peering into the woods.

 

Bard had not thought Thranduil dangerous until now.

 

The eighth barrel was rolled onto the shore when Thranduil shouted a warning, and Bard looked up to see three huge, bulbous spiders come scuttling through the underbrush.

 

Within a second he had drawn back an arrow and fired, straight into one of the spider’s heads. The beast stumbled but did not fall, so Bard fired another arrow in quick succession, and this time the spider fell and did not move. Thranduil had already engaged with another spider, his sword gleaming silver in the sunlight, long and straight with black markings etched down both the hilt and blade, weighted and designed specifically for elven movement.

 

Bard was distracted as he saw the elf in combat, graceful movements with no energy wasted, efficient and quick. The third spider seemed to deem Thranduil more of a threat, and as it turned, Bard fired two arrows into its side. The spider screeched a horrible, echoing sound, and Thranduil thrust his blade deep into its head.

 

Thranduil turned to Bard with his weapon still drawn, eyes wide and flitting from tree to shadow, looking for any other beasts.

 

During the skirmish, two barrels had floated straight past Bard’s boat and out into the lake, but it would not be difficult to pick those up on his way back.

 

“That death-cry was a signal to others in the area,” Thranduil said, walking back towards Bard. “We will soon be overrun. I suggest you leave while you can.”

 

“No!” Bard argued. “Two are better than one, even if I am but a man and you are an elf. It will not be said that I flee from battle.” Thranduil looked at him curiously and took up position so that Bard was on his left, their backs to the shore, as they kept watch on the tree line. Bard already had an arrow in waiting, and Thranduil had not yet sheathed his blade.

 

Thranduil snapped his head toward the tree line, hearing something that Bard could not, and tightened his fingers on his sword.

 

“Five approach from the east, and I suspect more will follow,” Thranduil informed him. As soon as Bard could see movement in the shadows of the forest he loosed an arrow, and a squeal told him that he had hit his mark. He was at a disadvantage, as he did not have elven eyesight, but Thranduil did not have a ranged weapon, and so the two worked together – Thranduil told him where to aim and Bard fired, until only one spider made it out of the tree line.

 

Thranduil sprang into action, crossing the large distance in what seemed like only a few strides, and dispatched the spider with terrible efficiency. His head then snapped further towards the forest, and he backed away slowly towards Bard.

 

“Ten more approach, and you have not that many arrows,” Thranduil said, looking up to Bard’s quiver, where only four arrows remained.

 

“Then I had better aim well,” Bard replied, docking the next arrow. These spiders approached faster than their kin, and Bard was down to his last arrow well before they emerged out onto the shore. He had no sword, and no other weapons to defend himself. Thranduil passed him an elven-make dagger, but it did not seem like much against such beasts as these.

 

Thranduil had just launched himself forward when elves also burst from the tree line, firing arrow after arrow while Thranduil fought from the ground, spinning and slashing like a dance. A spider came up on Thranduil’s left side whilst he was busy with another, and without a thought, Bard had buried the arrow deep into the creature’s eye socket.

 

“My King! More of the creatures are emerging, they are overrunning the forest,” a red-haired elf said, and it took Bard a moment to realize that they were speaking to Thranduil. Thranduil dispatched the last spider and sheathed his sword, looking to the group of elves.

 

“We destroy them before they get any further and drive them out,” Thranduil commanded, voice deep and authoritarian as it had been the day they met. “Legolas, go with Rindir’s guard to the far end of the forest river. Tauriel, take the rest of your soldiers south of their position and drive the creatures back to Dol Guldur.”

 

A blonde elf that could only have been Legolas nodded, and took a company of elves with him into the forest. A beautiful red-haired elf led the rest of the elves into the forest, and Thranduil made to follow.

 

“Thranduil!” Bard called out, and the elf paused, as did many of the elves who made to leave.

 

“Be careful,” Bard said, pointing a finger at the elf. Thranduil smirked, and took off into the forest with the other elves. Bard sighed and shook his head, retrieved what arrows of his he could, and then returned to his boat to gather up the few barrels that had floated out onto the lake.

 

*

 

The next time Bard took the trip across the lake and to the river’s shore, Thranduil was not waiting there. Bard hoped that it was for some reason other than the elf – the _elvenking_ – being injured. He was still on the watch for any spiders, for they were fearsome enemies and he did not know if he would be able to fight a pack of them alone, though he had brought more arrows with him this time.

 

He kept his bow and quiver to him as the first barrels came down river, ears and eyes sharp for anything out of the ordinary.

 

A twig snapped in the distance, and Bard whirled around with an arrow at the ready, but paused when he saw the familiar figure of Thranduil. The elf seemed unharmed and calm, though he still carried a sword at his hip. Bard let out a quiet sigh of relief and lowered his bow as the elf approached.

 

He knew that elves could be completely silent when they wished, and appreciated that Thranduil took the time to make the noise of his footsteps audible.

 

“I was half hoping that the spiders had finished you off, if only so I could get my job done in peace,” Bard teased, and the edge of Thranduil’s lip pulled up.

 

“You would not be rid of me so easily,” Thranduil responded with amusement. Bard hauled the last barrel onto shore and sat down heavily on it, looking to the elvenking.

 

“No, I do not think the elves of the Greenwood would appreciate being without their _king_ ,” Bard said pointedly, and Thranduil arched an eyebrow. “Did you manage to drive the spiders out?”

 

“Yes, and no,” Thranduil said, frustration lacing his voice. He sat himself gracefully on a barrel, crossing one leg over the other. “The spiders seem to be spawning from the depths of Dol Guldur, to the south, though scouts tell me that they seem to be appearing as if from nothing. We have killed many of them, but their numbers do not seem to be decreasing.”

 

“What kind of magic could do that?” Bard asked, and Thranduil’s eyes darkened.

 

“A dark and powerful one that has not been seen for an age,” Thranduil replied quietly. “I can only hope that I am wrong in my suspicions.”

 

The conversation seemed to come to a natural end, and the silence that lasted for a few minutes were neither uncomfortable nor awkward, but strangely pleasant.

 

“Your son looks like you,” Bard spoke after a while. “I only saw him for a short while last week, and the two of you share many similarities.”

 

At the mention of Legolas, Thranduil’s sharp and icy features seemed to soften slightly, some twinkle emerging in his eyes.

 

“It is interesting that you see much of myself in him, for I look at him and all I see is his mother,” Thranduil replied. “He has her same stubbornness and independence, her strong will and a desire to explore beyond the borders of his homeland.”

 

“I can see that you love him very much,” Bard observed, and Thranduil’s smile became self-deprecating.

 

“We have not spoken in a long while,” he said. “After his mother died, there was not much that Legolas and I could say to one another, and silence became the norm. Elves have a tendency to ignore something until it goes away.”

 

There was silence.

 

“Sigrid was much the same after my wife died,” Bard then said, and Thranduil looked to him with curious eyes. “As the eldest, she is really the only one who remembers their mother. Tilda was barely out of her infancy and Bain only three years older. Sigrid took to silently performing her mother’s duties, and I did not know how to comfort her.”

 

“What changed?” Thranduil asked gently.

 

“I helped Sigrid with her duties – cooking, cleaning, caring for the younger ones. I could not stop her from doing what she thought was necessary, just helped to lighten the load and let her know that she did not have to replace her mother,” Bard said quietly, with a smile.

 

Silence reigned as Thranduil pondered what Bard had said, and the bowman was happy to simply enjoy the sun and watch Thranduil.

 

“Would you dine within the woods tonight?” Thranduil asked suddenly, and Bard frowned.

 

“What do you mean?” he asked.

 

“There is to be a feast tonight, and I would like for you to see the splendor of our halls and join us as we celebrate,” Thranduil said kindly, and it seemed as though the first layer of ice that surrounded his heart melted somewhat. Bard could now see past the arrogant, cryptic, fierce king that he was, to the elf underneath.

 

“I must return these barrels, and look after my children,” Bard said, although he wanted nothing more than to accept the elvenking’s invitation.

 

“You do not have to come immediately. Return your barrels, and your eldest should be able to take care of the younglings for one night. No human has entered our halls in a long while, Bard of Laketown,” Thranduil said pointedly, and Bard shook his head with a small smile on his face.

 

“How could I say no to a request such as that?” he asked.

 

“You cannot,” Thranduil replied with a mischievous smirk. Bard sighed and stood up, and Thranduil too rose from where he was seated on the barrel. Bard quickly rolled the barrels into the boat, and then turned back to Thranduil.

 

“I will be waiting here, and I shall show you the way into the forest, for it is treacherous to venture without an elf at your side,” Thranduil said, an air of arrogance returning slightly to his words.

 

Bard rolled his eyes and cast off, heart pounding with excitement as he steered through the waters he had known his whole life.

 

The barrels he dropped off to his usual location without incident, and a few silver coins were dropped into his palm. Sigrid would be able to buy something for supper for the three of them, and Bard hoped they would be okay for one night without him.

 

Tilda was waiting anxiously when he stepped through his front door, and Sigrid had roped Bain into helping with the washing up.

 

“You were gone a long time, Da,” Sigrid noted with a pointed look, and Bard shook his head at the too-sharp eyes and ears of his eldest.

 

“Did you talk with the elf, again, Da?” Tilda asked excitedly, leaning against Bard as he sat down on the bed next to her.

 

Bard had never been able to keep secrets from his children, especially once they began to notice that his weekly trip had begun to take much longer. He told them of the elf, and his name once he had learned it, and even their skirmish with the great spiders that had deeply interested Bain. He did not tell them that Thranduil was the elvenking, as he was not entirely sure how.

 

“I did talk with him, darling,” Bard said to his youngest, who was looking up at him with excited eyes. Bain had started taking more of an interest once Bard told him of their fight with the spiders, and Sigrid politely listened but rarely commented. “I wanted to talk to you three as well.”

 

“What is it, Da?” Sigrid asked.

 

“Sigrid, would you be able to look after Bain and Tilda tonight?” he asked, and his eldest frowned.

 

“Are you going out?” she asked, and Bard nodded.

 

“Are you going to see Thranduil?” Bain asked excitedly, and Bard nodded again.

 

“He has asked me to dine in the halls of the Greenwood, and I did not think it wise to refuse his invitation,” Bard said evasively, though he wanted nothing more than to see the halls in which the elves called their home.

 

“Can we come?” Tilda asked hopefully, and Bard laughed as he pressed a kiss to her hair.

 

“Not this time, my dear, though perhaps in the future you may join us,” Bard replied, and looked up to Sigrid, as he had still not received an answer. She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then smiled.

 

“We will be alright for a single night, Da, and I shall make sure the two of them get to bed on time,” Sigrid said with a wry grin. Bard stood up and pressed a kiss to her forehead, thankful that he had such wonderful children.

 

“I shall try to get home as early as I can,” Bard said, ruffling Bain’s hair.

 

“Can you bring me back a present?” Tilda asked, clasping her hands together as if in a prayer.

 

“I shall try, dearest,” Bard replied, before he retreated to his room. He was not entirely sure what was acceptable to wear when dining with elves, and he did not own any finery, so he simply changed into whatever smelled the least of fish.

 

He took his bow and quiver with him, as the forest was bound to still be dangerous, and gave the silvers to Sigrid and kisses to the younger ones. The sun was dipping low in the sky, sending red streaks throughout the heavens. It would be near dark by the time Bard arrived at the river’s edge, and he did not wish to be late.

 

Thranduil was waiting in his usual place when Bard pulled up to shore, and he had upon his shoulders a gleaming silver robe lined with rich scarlet upon the inside. Upon his head sat small red flower buds upon a crown of thorns, capturing the essence of summer itself. Bard felt sorely out of place in his fisherman’s clothing, though the elvenking did not say anything about his appearance.

 

“You should know now that I have no history of dining with elves,” Bard said as the two began to make their way across the rocky shoreline. “And if there are any customs of men that your people find offensive, you should probably warn me now.”

 

Thranduil let out a small laugh as they headed through the tree line, following a barely-there pathway.

 

“I do not believe there is anything in particular you must know, other than to be gracious and respectful to those around you,” Thranduil said, weaving his way through the underbrush like he knew every single branch and twig of the forest, and it was probable that he did. “Though I am sure you do not need to be told so.”

 

“I am hardly gracious towards you,” Bard muttered, and Thranduil paused to turn to him.

 

“And that is why you interest me,” he said cryptically, before carrying on, and Bard sighed. Would this elf ever cease to stop talking in riddles and speak plainly? If all of the elves of the Greenwood were like him, Bard did not know how he would last the night.

 

“You should also know that many of my people have not seen humans in many a year, and will be curious about you,” Thranduil said, leading Bard through some of the thicker underbrush, and Bard was no longer sure that they were still on the path, though he trusted without a doubt that Thranduil knew where he was going.

 

“They will be sorely disappointed,” Bard replied, and Thranduil let out a laugh.

 

“I do not think they will be,” he said, turning his head to look back at Bard for a moment. Thranduil reached out and trailed his left fingers along many of the branches and trees as they walked through the forest, shadowing over thin leaves and rough bark. Although he was dressed in royal garb, he still looked part of the forest.

 

Bard was not too familiar with the woodlands and would occasionally stumble over a root or stone, though in his hometown he could navigate the rooftops and waters with ease. His balance upon a barge was ingrained, as it was with all who lived in Laketown, but compared to the easy grace of Thranduil, he felt like a stumbling child.

 

“It is not far now,” Thranduil said, though Bard could see no change in the forest, except that it began to get darker and harder to see the road ahead. There were no signs of dark creatures, though Bard noticed that some of the plants and trees had begun to brown, and Thranduil’s fingers lingered on them longer than on others.

 

“You know… people have begun to use a different name for your forest,” Bard said, remembering the whispers and rumor that came through Laketown.

 

“Ah, yes, _Mirkwood_ ,” Thranduil said, sneering slightly at the name. “Reminiscent of the highlands of Dorthonion, under the days of Morgoth. I do not believe that my homeland is quite as poisoned as that forsaken woodland.”

 

“Nevertheless, it is the more common name used by the people,” Bard said. “It has been a long while since I have heard it referred to as the Greenwood. Something in the air feels sick, as though a foul smoke burns from the south and is carried on the wind.” Thranduil paused and looked back to Bard with a curious expression.

 

“You are more inquisitive than I believed you to be,” Thranduil said. “Though the matter is being handled. For over an age I have watched over this land, and I will not allow it to fall into ruin.”

 

As Thranduil spoke, the trees parted and before them stood a hall of magnificent proportions, like the trunk of an impossibly large oak tree, stretching far beyond the already high tops of the trees around them. Doors and windows seemed to mold seamlessly into the tree, as if they had always been there. Bright lights hung about the air, and either side of the bridge before the great door seemed to be a forest abyss.

 

Bard was speechless, and was well aware of Thranduil’s smirk at his side as he could not help but look about in amazement. A few elves were on guard, and placed their hand to their breast as Thranduil and Bard passed them.

 

The inside of the heart of the forest was even more gorgeous, with large carven paths of wood stretching out in all directions like branches, leading up and down in a dizzying array. There seemed to be no order to things, though that made it seem all the more natural, as though the branches had simply grown in the most convenient way for the elves to live among them.

 

“The elves learned long ago the art of singing the trees into form and shape,” Thranduil said, pride evident in his voice, though Bard still had not found his own.

 

Far ahead of them, Bard could see a raised platform in the twist of a branch that led to a throne that seemed to be made of impossibly huge elk antlers, an imposing shape that Bard could quite easily imagine Thranduil seated in.

 

“I have no words to describe this, only that I now understand where your pride and arrogance come from if you sit in that thing all day,” Bard teased, and Thranduil could not contain the smirk that twisted his lips, tense like he was trying to resist doing so.

 

“Come, let us join the feast,” Thranduil said, leading Bard throughout the city within the trees. Eventually one of the branches seemed to spread out into a large floor, where a huge table sat, grown from the floor itself. Elves of all genders, skin and hair colour sat around the table, laughing and speaking in elvish, thin fingers wrapped around goblets filled with a rich crimson wine.

 

There was a small lull in the conversation when the two entered the area, but Thranduil motioned for them to continue on. Thranduil took his seat at the very head of the table, and waved a hand at Bard towards the empty space directly to his left. Bard noticed a strange expression flit over Legolas’ face, as that was the only elf he could be despite only a few seconds’ look the previous week, who sat on Thranduil’s right.

 

Thranduil clapped his hands so they echoed throughout the hall, and chestnut-haired elves carried out huge plates of food to place on the table. It was like nothing Bard had ever seen. The primary meat in Laketown was fish, had at nearly every meal; occasionally some deer during the summer season when Bard was lucky enough to hunt one near the forest. The fish was often interspersed with rice and grains, some weak vegetables due to the lack of land for crops to grow, and very few fruits.

Here on the tables of elves, were lush green vegetables piled high, plates of plump red grapes, deep mulberry plums and groupings of rich strawberries and apricots, glass flagons of crimson wine. However what drew Bard’s attention most of all was the meat – venison cooked to perfection, still steaming, and chicken with cherries and thin slices of golden, roasted potatoes.

 

Bard had, for some reason, assumed that the elves were vegetarian, and was glad that they were not, for he had never seen finer meat in his life. There, thankfully, was no fish, though he was sure it would taste better than anything he had ever eaten at home.

 

An elf poured him a glass of the rich wine, and as he sipped it, the taste exploded on his tongue in a way that wine never had. He saw Thranduil smirking, and raised an eyebrow at him.

 

“I would not recommend more than one glass for you, and to drink it slowly, as it can inebriate even the most disciplined of elves,” Thranduil warned him. The blonde elf on Bard’s left laughed and raised her goblet.

 

“There seems to be a story I have not heard,” Bard said, and the elf next to him laughed again.

 

“There is, though it is probably for the king to tell you,” the elf said, taking a sip of her wine, and Bard looked to Thranduil pointedly. The elf gave him a look that seemed to say _maybe later_ , before gesturing for Bard to begin piling the food onto his plate.

 

He placed a small amount of everything he could see on his plate, eager to try anything, and noticed that a few of the elves at the table were looking curiously to him. He supposed that he stood out not only because he was human, but also because of his clothing. All of the elves wore finery, even the ones dressed as warriors wore clothing finer than any of Sigrid’s dresses.

 

“Do not mind them, Bard of Laketown, they are too curious for their own good,” the female elf next to Bard whispered. Bard looked to the elf, quite sure that they had never met. “The king likes you, and therefore word has spread of you. It has been a long while since King Thranduil has had any dealings with _men_.”

 

“So I’ve heard,” Bard muttered, sipping his wine. The elf laughed, high and tinkling like a chime in the wind. At that moment, elves entered the area with instruments of many sort – harp and flute, violin and voice, and soft music began to play.

 

Elf celebrations were filled with energy but not loud, and though most of the conversation was in elvish and not the common tongue, Bard could tell that the elves spoke not of gossip, but of family and philosophy. Though the elves drunk wine and became merry, they did not behave like drunken men in the taverns, but simply laughed easier and for longer.

 

Thranduil, Bard noted, did not laugh with them, and neither did his son.

 

Bard was not sure how much time passed, and though he felt out of place he was comfortable, especially once some of the elves included him in their conversation and asked him about life on the lake. All of the elves seemed to share his opinion on the Master, and snide comments about him once or twice nearly made Bard spit out his wine. The food was more delicious than anything Bard had ever tasted, even better than what his late wife had cooked, and he felt his tongue loosening despite the small amount of wine he had consumed.

 

The elves, however, seemed to find his teasing comments amusing, and many of them towards the end of the night looked to Bard with a sort of respect. Bard had made many jokes at the expense of the king, and though Thranduil tried to look displeased, he could not entirely hide the tiny pull of his lip that let Bard know that his behaviour was allowed.

 

The arctic blue of Thranduil’s eyes, a piercing, too-pale shade that had once looked ice cold, now seemed to remind Bard of the midday skies.

 

Bard had no idea how long the feast lasted for, especially after rich desserts of berries, nuts and cream emerged, but eventually Thranduil called for the end of the night, and the elves placed their hands to their breast before exiting from the area. To Bard, the night had passed both slowly and with great speed, and he found himself not wanting to venture home quite yet.

 

Thranduil broke away to talk to one of the elves who was leaving for a moment, and Legolas took that time to approach Bard with a curious expression.

 

“My father likes you,” Legolas said, and Bard raised his eyebrows at the abrupt conversation starter.

 

“I thought he was just as frustrating and annoying to all of the humans he met,” Bard replied back, and Legolas’ mouth twitched up in much the same way his father did when he did not wish to show his amusement.

 

“My father has not shown any interest in any human in a long time,” Legolas said, pointedly, and Bard still did not know why all of the elves seemed to be doing so.

 

“You all seem to say that as if there is a hidden meaning I am supposed to unravel,” Bard sighed. Legolas laughed gently, and looked over Bard’s shoulder to his father.

 

“He seems to trust you on a personal level, which is rare enough among his people. I believe it will not take you much longer to discover the meaning of what we speak,” Legolas said cryptically with a wry grin, before he too left the area for the night. Bard threw his hands up in frustration, and heard an amused sound from behind him.

 

“Why must I suffer the cryptic words of elves? Why can none of you speak plainly?” Bard sighed as he turned to look at Thranduil, who tilted his head as he looked at Bard. In the soft light of the elven halls, Bard had not thought that he had seen Thranduil look so beautiful. The elf seemed relaxed and even content, a substantial change from the arrogant, cold elf he had met on the river’s edge.

 

“Walk with me,” Thranduil asked, and this time it was truly a request, not a command, and so Bard followed him. They exited back out into the forest, the night sky bright and lit up with stars above the treetops, the full moon lending light where there was none.

 

It was not, however, enough light for Bard to clearly see by, and so Thranduil took a small glass jar from one of the guards that had been filled with bright, bioluminescent insects to light Bard’s path. Torches would be much too dangerous to carry into the forest.

 

The journey back to the river’s edge was different, as Thranduil led them down the well-marked path, so that Bard would not struggle through the underbrush in the relative dark. It was silent between them, but pleasantly so, and the air was cool and sweet where it brushed against Bard’s skin.

 

Bard marveled at the way Thranduil’s hair seemed to glow in the moonlight, the soft fall of it blowing gently in the breeze, the crown upon his head seeming to bloom. Thranduil’s footsteps were mostly silent, and the return journey seemed much quicker than the first, and soon Bard could see where the river joined the lake. His heart seemed to fall slightly, as he did not want the night to end.

 

The moon shone bright over the lake, and Bard could see that the lights of Laketown’s homes had all but been extinguished – it must be the small hours of the morning, he thought.

 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Thranduil asked as they emerged onto the smooth rock of the shoreline.

 

“Greatly so, though I am glad you warned me about the wine beforehand,” Bard replied, and Thranduil laughed, the sound echoing in the night. It did not sound as cruel or reluctant as it once did.

 

“Human or dwarvish ale has no effect upon the elves, though Dorwinion wine has caused many troubles,” Thranduil said with an amused smirk.

 

“I take it that you are not the type to indulge in such inebriation,” Bard asked nonchalantly, though he glanced at Thranduil with suspicious eyes. The elf sighed and narrowed his eyes at the forest, though he could see straight to the female elf who had planted the suspicion in Bard’s mind.

 

“I would occasionally, far back in the past, celebrate too merrily with my people,” Thranduil said with his head held high, as if his stature would negate his words, and Bard laughed at the thought of Thranduil having drunk one too many glasses of wine. He could barely imagine it, and that was what made it all the more amusing.

 

“I had a fine evening, Thranduil, though I still cannot imagine why you would wish for me to join you in your halls,” Bard said, and in the moonlight Thranduil’s eyes seemed to shine like pale jewels.

 

“You truly do not know?” Thranduil asked.

 

“Know what? You elves speak in riddles that only you seem to understand,” Bard replied, frustrated that he seemed to be missing some important fact that he had previously chalked down to elvish culture, though now he was not so sure.

 

Thranduil then took a step forward faster than Bard could blink, so close that Bard would be able to count the individual eyelashes that surrounded the ice blue of his eyes.

 

“I like you, Bard of Laketown, far more than I should,” Thranduil said, and finally the meaning sunk into Bard’s mind as though a mist had cleared. He blinked once, and then twice, not entirely sure what to say to something like that. He thought the elf beautiful, and as charming as he was maddening, but had never dreamed that his feelings for the elf would be reciprocated in any way.

 

“I was starting to wonder if it was a one-way situation,” was what spilled out of Bard’s lips, and the elvenking’s eyes widened at his words.

 

“You should know that I am a selfish individual,” Thranduil said quietly, so that Bard could feel the ghost of his breath upon his own lips. His words sounded equally like a warning and a challenge.

 

“And you are also an arrogant, frustrating and cryptic individual, though you do not see me feeling any differently about you,” Bard said pointedly, raising his eyebrows. At times he cursed the words that spilled out of his mouth, words that were much too sharp and drew the attention of the Master, but he had learned that Thranduil seemed to enjoy his teasing.

 

Thranduil’s lips turned up in a darkly amused smile, before he moved forward to devour Bard’s own.

 

The elvenking kissed with a passion that Bard did not know he possessed, thin fingers cupping his jaw and neck, twining slightly into the hair at the back of Bard’s neck. Bard gripped onto the elf’s shoulders for support as his mind reeled, a swift and cruel tongue having its way with him.

 

When Thranduil pulled away, Bard was breathing heavily, and was still not entirely sure that he was not within a dream. The elf did not pull back far, but Bard had to close his eyes for fear that he would lose himself in Thranduil’s, until he could finally speak.

 

“If that is the type of selfishness you possess, I certainly do not mind,” Bard breathed out, and Thranduil couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips. He pressed another quick, consuming kiss to Bard’s lips, before pulling away fully, though the fingers of his right hand brushed against Bard’s own.

 

“I have something for you,” Thranduil said, and pulled out a package from beneath his robes. It was wrapped within large leaves, and was relatively heavy when Bard took it.

 

“What is it?” he asked. Thranduil smiled.

 

“Food from the feast that was uneaten, to take home for your family,” Thranduil said, and Bard felt some familiar yet strange sensation in his belly, and a tightening of his heart.

 

“Thank you, Thranduil,” was all he could say, and the elf nodded his head graciously towards him.

 

“The hour is late and we both must return to our people,” Thranduil said, looking up to the stars, only a few wisps of faint cloud crossing slowly against the night sky.

 

“Perhaps next week you should send more barrels, so I have an excuse to stay for longer,” Bard said with a teasing grin, and Thranduil looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

 

“Or I could visit your home in Laketown,” he said, and Bard’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

 

“Or you could cause a riot upon your arrival and scare half the town to death,” he responded, and the elf simply smirked.

 

“Goodnight, Bard of Laketown. I hope your children will enjoy the tales you will tell them of tonight,” Thranduil said graciously, with a small upward twitch of his lip.

 

“Tilda will not let me rest until I have told her the color of every elf’s clothing in the hall, I am sure,” Bard laughed. He then gently took hold of the fingers that brushed against his own, and used them to pull Thranduil slightly closer, to press a soft kiss against the elf’s lips.

 

“Until we next meet,” Bard said with a grin, and returned to his boat on the river. He cast off, and raised a hand to Thranduil as he left, and the elf returned the gesture.

 

Bard navigated throughout the darkened night waters as easy as breathing, with a strange tempo to his heart.

 


End file.
